


In the winds

by SizzleItUpWithTaako



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-01-24 14:56:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21340075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SizzleItUpWithTaako/pseuds/SizzleItUpWithTaako
Summary: What could go wrong with introducing your boyfriend to your family to the holidays?  Well, if it's been nearly half a year and no one knew you were seeing anyone; a lot.--Alternately, Oliver and Marcus are doing their best, their best is just not great.
Relationships: Marcus Flint/Oliver Wood
Comments: 18
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's 3:30 in the morning, have this mess.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

It was the dead of winter and the middle of a _blizzard_, yet Oliver had been adamant that they go out. Marcus looked about as convinced at four-forty seven that evening as he had at exactly five-thirty that morning, when he’d been woken by the sound of Oliver knocking about frantically. He’d had to remind Oliver rather loudly that there was no sense in trying to sand off that weird stain on their table - _it was just like that_ \- because they were going round to his family home; they weren’t coming round to _their’s_. 

Oliver had tried to shoot him an accusatory look, but put up profoundly less resistance than he had probably hoped to when Marcus just sighed, put him over his shoulder and headed back to their bedroom. Turned out, Oliver had woken with a start roughly an _hour_ earlier from a dream of similar impending arrival - his family visiting them instead - that had been so visceral, he proceeded to then have a cleaning panic. Marcus was sure he’d have tried to peel up the skirting boards and hammer new ones in, if he’d let him.

Presently, he was frowning at Oliver as he gestured to the hellish flurry of wind and ice that raged outside of their large window. “_Wood_.” he’d said, incredulous.

“Flint.” Oliver returned, sniffing primly.

“We’re gonna freeze our tits off.” he said plainly. He knew full well that his protest was falling upon deaf ears, however. They’d agreed months ago to go to the Wood family home for the holidays and the man had been dead set on it ever since. Marcus could hardly blame him though, could he? Oliver wouldn’t say it - not to him, not out loud - but he’d been aching to see his family. To finally be able to be open with them about… Everything.

Where they lived, who he lived with, hell, who _Marcus_ not only was, but who he was to _him_ specifically. Up until they’d agreed to go, neither had quite realized how much of their lives they’d fought tooth and nail to keep underwraps. For Marcus it hadn’t been anything horribly far out of the ordinary - a staunch, pureblood upbringing tended to have that effect - but it had been crushing for Oliver, who had felt the distance from his family doubly so afterwards. 

“Well, then _wear a thicker jacket_.” Oliver supplied helpfully, doing his best to shoot a withering look at him as he whipped his scarf around himself, the end swinging up to lightly whap the tassels in his face. Marcus almost laughed at the sight as Oliver sputtered, cheeks red as he muttered to himself indignantly and went to hunt down his gloves, instead settling for a bitter sweet smile with dread riding in on its coattails. 

He couldn’t help but wonder if the distance would result in more trouble once they broke the news. Oliver was insistent that it wouldn’t, in the way that he always was when he was dead set on _one_ outcome. As if he couldn’t bare the thought of having to consider the alternative. Marcus instead mulled it over for the both of them, having spent long nights awake trying to work out how he could possibly manage to console him if things should go awry.

* * *

As they appeared with a whirl just outside the doorstep of a small, stone house with a thatched roof and a steady stream of smoke billowing from the chimney, Marcus thought to himself that it all rather looked to be out of a documentary. The railing outside the very small porch, just outside the doorway looked worn and handmade, notched together securely and holding resiliently against the gale. The rest of the space around them was hard to make out, for the wind and ice that whipped at them mercilessly, but if Marcus squinted he could make out the vague shapes of enormous trees swaying and bending hesitantly in the force of the storm.

For a moment, he wondered if they should worry about something being knocked loose, hurtling towards the small home, but a glance to Oliver suggested that he hadn’t even registered the thought as a worry. Instead, he seemed bright eyed and anxious, a mixture of excitement and dread all at once, and Marcus felt his heart sink a little. He wanted it to go well, if only for Oliver’s sake. He couldn’t bare the thought of the heartbreak it would cause him if they shut him out on account of _him_.

Before Oliver could take a step forward to escape the storm, Marcus pulled him back against his chest and looped his arms around him securely. If he’d protested, which he was fairly certain he had, the words were lost to the winds. He smiled a bit as he felt a sigh shake Oliver’s shoulders within his grasp, the other resigning to stay in the cold for just a moment longer as he brought gloved hands up to rest on Marcus’s arms. 

He hoped that it went well. For Oliver’s sake.

After they’d managed to peel themselves from the front walk where they’d only partially frozen, they were enveloped into the warmth of the house readily, and greeted by Mrs. Wood, who was all smiles and hugs. Well, Oliver was. “Aye, there's th'lad! It’s so good to see ye!” Mrs. Wood exclaimed, patting her son’s back heartily as they clung to one another. They’d both been feeling the strain of the absence in particular, by the look of it.

Marcus was, unsurprisingly, met with a bit of surprise and apprehension as he ducked through the doorway and towered over the both of them. Marcus was hardly phased by it; really, he’d be more surprised to have been welcomed in with open arms as if he were anyone else. Oliver, ever the optimist, elected to take it in stride. 

Something that was mirrored by Mrs. Wood, who had recovered quickly to smile warmly at Marcus once Oliver had been released. “Well, who’ve y'brought round, Oliver -- Come in, lad, let’s get y'both out of the storm!” she offered cheerily, holding Marcus at arms length a moment before brushing past to shut the door tight against the winds.

"Well, mum," Oliver said cheerily, trying to hide the near desperation that threatened to waver his voice and shake his confidence as he hung up his coat. "This is my boyfriend, Marcus Flint." The words were said simply, without batting a lash and Marcus didn’t catch the combination of alarm and concern look that crossed Mrs. Wood’s face, nor the hurt that, for a split second, instantly color’s Oliver’s, despite his best efforts. Instead for a moment, it felt as if all the air had been sucked from the room. For a moment, Marcus is frozen in place, the only movement being his heart hammering away in his chest. 

The seconds that follow feel like hours and Marcus waits. Waits for the inevitable argument, the yelling, the screeching, the crash of important, loved objects being thrown in a heated objection; the '_How could you_'s, the, '_We raised you better_'s, the, '_He's a_ _**Flint**__, have you any idea what this means for our family_'s... But they never come.

_ __ _

_ _ _ _The sounds of the space around him float past him like fog, unregistered as his gaze finds purchase focusing unyieldingly on... What had to be the most bizarre wallpaper he'd seen for an age, and for a moment he almost considered it, brows furrowing. But the words spoken around him - not quite heated - or, possibly even to him sounded as if he were under water, trying to tune in to the world above and he knew he _should_ be listening, but the cold sweat that had wrapped itself around him kept him frozen as the seconds passed._ _ _ _

_ __ _

_ _ _ _Marcus hadn't quite realized he'd essentially blacked out for a good moment after Oliver had spoken, something akin to pure, unbridled fear having unfurled within his chest and stretched out within him to curl itself around his spine. Fear... Fear of what, fear of judgement? Hardly. Fear of being forced to part from Oliver, because there's no way he, _Marcus Flint_, would begin to be worth fighting for in a million years if his family were to hand him an ultimatum? Undoubtedly. _ _ _ _

_ __ _

_ _ _ _"Marcus?" Oliver called, his tone worried in the way that it always is when he clammed up._ _ _ _

_ __ _

_ _ _ _The light touch of Oliver's hands as he came to stand in front of him, holding both his own visibly startled him from his internal nosedive and he frowned, confused as he finally managed to tune in to the ever more worried look from Oliver. He seemed… _Upset_, eyes a little misty and brows knit, but didn’t hold his gaze for long. Distantly, he could hear someone else fretting in the background, scooting about, but he couldn't bring himself to look away. _ _ _ _

_ __ _

_ _ _ _"'M alright." he supplied after a moment. Oliver noded mutely, squeezing Marcus’s hands as he stared downward. Marcus returned the gesture and opened his mouth - whether to ask if Oliver was alright or offer to take him home, back to their flat he wasn’t sure - but shut it again as Mrs. Wood rounded the corner, glass of water in hand and tittering softly at the both of them. He did his best to look appreciative between the, '_Oh, sorry dear_'s, and the, '_We really hadn't meant to give ye such a fright_'s, but supposed he probably just looked vaguely uncomfortable as she continued to fret. _ _ _ _

_ __ _

_ _ _ _She gave both of them an apologetic look before rounding the corner again - “Back in just a tick, I’ve got to check on supper!” - as Oliver assured her that they'd be alright and took the glass as Marcus shrugged off his own coat, leaning up to press a gentle, reassuring kiss to his lips. “They’ll love ye, I’m sure of it.” Oliver promised. He hoped. With his free hand, he reached up to caress his cheek gently, thumb rubbing slowly over his cheekbone. Marcus lets his eyes shut for a moment as he leaned in to the touch, one of his own hands coming up to hold Oliver’s in place, just for a moment. _ _ _ _

_ __ _

He merely hummed in response before turning his head to kiss Oliver’s palm, lips lingering before pulling away and turning their hands in order to lace their fingers together. “As long as _you_ do,” he said, watching as Oliver’s gaze softened. He felt his cheeks warm at the smile that curled Oliver’s lips and looked away, suddenly too welled up with the swirling emotion of the evening thus far as he mirrored a small smile of his own anyway. “‘S all that matters.” 

_ __ _

* * *

There had been blissfully little time to mingle, as they’d managed to show up rather close to when they were meant to be sitting down to tuck in. Possibly fortunately for them, this meant less time fielding pointed questions posed casually from cousins and uncles, who would be tutted at by kind aunts who - in all honesty wanted to know as well - but insisted they, “Let th'lads at least sit down first”. Instead, inquiries were saved for the more formal affair of a sit down meal, with the pretence being one of at least slightly more tact, as was only polite.

As they were shuffled into the dining room, Marcus did his best to not look wildly out of place amongst the other guests as they took their seats, but it was something that was increasingly hard to do for all the glances that were sent his way from relatives in brightly colored, knitted jumpers; a mustard yellow here, a carmine red there, and a mildly splotchy green, for flavor. 

Oliver, he noted, matched him, more than he did his family. While he had opted for standard black, as he was want to do, Oliver had gone for a navy so dark one might think he was trying to blend into him. He couldn’t quite seem to mind the idea.

He paid no mind to the muffled whispering as he’d pulled out Oliver’s chair for him, offering a small, wary smile in exchange for Oliver’s own before taking his place beside him. Once seated, they had a chance to take in the spread set out across an almost comically long dinner table, and revel in the smell of the feast. Their supper consisted of cock-a-leekie and cullen skink, each served in two large, white and green heirloom soup tureens. Between either tureen was a truly magnificent looking turkey, a deep, lovely golden brown, and being passed around were large, lovely plates of roast potatoes and parsnips, stuffing, brussel sprouts and two sizable plates of kilted sausages. 

As Marcus quietly marvelled at the spread, he felt a pang in his chest. No wonder Oliver had been missing home so sorely the closer they’d gotten to the year's end. Holidays at Flint manor had been considerably more frigid, from as far back as he could remember. More… Transactional, than anything. They showed up, put on finery, made a show of their wealth with exactly one decent act for a thimble’s worth of their funds for the year to impress the papers, ate in silence and then retired to their individual rooms. 

When he’d been small, his parents - and by that, he really only meant his mother - had put in the effort to make things a little less gloomy with gift giving, for his benefit. It had been lovely, given the circumstances, and at the time he’d simply thought that that was how it was done. A few small gifts left in one’s room to unwrap and enjoy and hide later, lest his father find out. It had been lovely… Given the circumstances.

The tradition had fallen by the wayside when his mother had fallen ill, much to Marcus’s confusion. The gifts had never had any indication as to whom they’d been from, they’d just appeared. On birthdays, on holidays, while he’d been at school, if he’d been struggling little wrapped boxes would appear on his bed or nightstand. Sometimes they would appear just because. Once his mother had fallen ill however, things had slowed significantly and he’d stuffed down the hurt that flared with each missed marker, opting instead to channel that elsewhere. Quidditch had really been more of a godsend than anything.

“Lovely spread, aye?” Oliver asked, nudging him gently with his elbow. The unreadable expression that had settled on his features eased a bit as he nodded, gaze softening as he turned to Oliver. “Yeah, never… Had anything like it, really.” he replied, with a tone that he’d really only meant for Oliver. However, it seemed he’d spoken just a little too loud, or those gathered around them were a little too eager to be able to begin asking questions.

“Wot’s tha’ lad?” an elderly uncle in a very, very orange sweater, just across from them piped up. “What d’ye mean ye’ve no’ had such a spread? Yer a Flint, aren’t ye, wot’s yer usual fare?” Word of who it was Oliver had brought along had spread quickly, it seemed. Beside him, he could hear Oliver sigh in exasperation in that way that he does when he’s ready to wind up for a lecture. “Uncle _Callum_ \--” he began, frowning, but Marcus merely shook his head. 

“I’m a Flint,” he said calmly, not batting a lash at the quiet gasps and tittering that sounded off. “Marcus Flint, to be exact, I’m sure there’ve been stories.” Down the table, a cousin cackled as Oliver grimaced a bit, his face going ruddy. There most certainly _had_ been, ranging from complaints about quidditch - _two_ whole months of screechy ranting in particular when Marcus had been deemed captain of the Slytherin team - as well as an embarrassing amount of pining, though he’d kept the descriptions vague. He couldn’t have his family, cousins in particular, working out who he’d meant. He’d have never heard the end of it at home or at school.

“My family doesn’t really take part in celebrating the holidays. Not for a few years now, at any rate, though I suppose Ivor still makes his one charitable donation a year. He’s always been rather fond of his seasonal portrait in the Prophet.” he sneered, jabbing a potato with his fork. 

Anyone else might have been uncomfortable in the dead silence that followed, but Marcus couldn’t even begin to seem bothered by it. He’d long since grown accustomed to staring and hounding, and had been informed in no uncertain terms throughout the entirety of his life that his particular sob story had been nothing worth getting out of bed for, much less writing home about. 

Save for Oliver. For reasons unknown, Oliver had elected to indignantly dig his heels in and squabbled and fought with him until he’d managed to claw his way into his good graces, tooth an nail, spitting curses the whole way. Once he had, well, Marcus couldn't bare the thought of letting him go any more than Oliver could bare the thought of leaving, and the rest was history, wasn’t it?

He felt Oliver’s hand come to rest on his knee as the rest of the Wood family shook out of their stupor, still chomping at the bit with more questions. The most pressing of which being, “Ivor, lad, is tha’ yer Da’? D’ye really use yer Da’s _first_ name?” The question was posed from the other end of the table from a short aunt with _very_ tall hair, styled in a sort of frosted swathe. 

“Don’t see why not.” was the nonchalant reply. “Not as if he minds; he’d probably be uncomfortable if I called him anything else, really.”

From beside the tall haired aunt, a sort of squeaky voice piped up with, “Tha’s so cool!” The boy, who couldn’t have been more than eight, was swiftly lectured with lots of, ‘_Oi, you’ll do_ _**no**_ _such thing Angus Evander Wood, do y’hear me?_’ and ‘_Wha’ would yer poor Da say, if he could hear such codswallop!_’ There was little time to chuckle as the other end of the table busied themselves with chatting, for another question pressed forward, put forth by the previous relative across from them - Callum, if memory served. 

“Is tha’ why yer here then, lad? Don’t ye _miss_ yer family? I’m sure our young Oliver here’s missed us all terribly, we’ve no’ seen hide nor hair o’ him since th’blue moon ‘fore last!” 

“_**Callum.**_” A stern warning at the head of the table from Mrs. Wood, a mildly distressed staredown trying to especially convey the need to Not. Unfortunately for her, Callum hadn’t ever been able to read a room to save his life and was blind as a bat, and instead simply waved a hand in her general direction.

Meanwhile, the hand rested on Marcus’s knee tensed and he could practically feel the discomfort that had clutched Oliver in its grasp. If only they knew how much it had truly been tearing him up, having so many things that he felt he had to hide that it was less exhausting trying to simply stay away. Setting his utensils down gently, Marcus leaned back in his chair and resigned himself to the questioning, but really, it was just an excuse to slide his own hand under the table to hold Oliver’s.

“...Alright if I’m honest?” he asked, to which Callum nodded obligingly and Mrs. Wood sighed heavily. “We won’t fault ye fer tha’, lad.”

“I don’t miss Ivor. I’d say I doubt that he’s even noticed that I’m not there, but he…” he trailed off, a deep frown tugging at his features as his eyebrows knit together. It was almost funny, in the way that horrifically unjust things always were, that he’d never actually had to say out loud before that his father had outright hated him. He’d always been aware, never had to doubt in the slightest his opinion, or even had to do much guesswork about where he stood in the grand scheme of things as far as his father was concerned. But it had only ever been an unspoken rule of his existence. 

He’d never had to acknowledge it with any real intensity; never had to hold it up to the light and debate whether or not it was something worth saying, worth suffering the pitying glances and polite sympathies. Suddenly, the room felt remarkably warm, far too much for comfort. Beside him, Oliver twisted in his chair to face him, bringing up his free hand to rest on his arm. “Marcus--” he began, only to be interrupted by Callum.

“Oi, let th’lad say his piece, th’lot o’ye!” 

From the hard frowns and mounting protest that were being pointed in Callum’s direction, it was almost hard to hear Marcus, whose voice had gone rather small, as he’d stared through his plate, rather than at it. “He disowned me.” Marcus thought for a moment he must have imagined himself having said it, for the great flapping that was coming from across the table, the protests getting more and more under way, interjected with, “Wot was tha’lad, cannae hear ye!”

Marcus had been too focused on his plate to notice the ghostly look of horror on Oliver’s face, having heard him the first time. He’d never had to tell _anyone_ that his father hated him before. It had always just been an unspoken rule, a known thing.

“_**He disowned me.**_” he growled out, anger sparking to life in his voice before dying on the suddenly uneven exhale. "So as far as he's concerned, I'm _not_ a Flint. Never was." He was shaking. The room felt far, far too hot for comfort, like he’d stepped into a great furnace. He muttered something along the lines of, ‘excuse me’ and refused to look at any of them as he pushed back from the table and stalked out of the room, leaving the Wood family to look on in silence as he disappeared.

Oliver sat, caught between horrified and stunned with the hand that had been resting against Marcus’s arm pressed to his mouth. For a long, long stretch they all sat in silence, as if entranced, unable to move. But the spell was broken by Angus, no more than eight, who interrupted with, “What does disowned mean?” The moment those words were uttered, an uproar broke out and Oliver bolted, like a shot in the direction Marcus had gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight on 'Into the winds', Oliver is shit at maths (aren't we all) and Marcus is trying not to have an anxiety attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends and neighbors, welcome back to This Mess™: part two, electric boogaloo! Have some sad lads and hopefully, y'all like it!

It was impossible to see even a foot in front of his face as Oliver bolted out the front door and into the storm frantically, glowing wand in hand and jacket long forgotten, so it was frustratingly impossible to tell whether or not Marcus was out there. That didn’t stop him in the least from doing his best to wade through the rapidly rising tides of ice and calling out to him, though it did little good as the howling wind all but swallowed the sound. He managed to make it all the way to the edge of the forest, shivering something terrible as the wind and snow bit into him angrily. But it was only in the mild, creaking safety of the trees that he finally resigned himself to admitting that he hadn’t been able to spot any other footprints in the snow, even in the dim light. Marcus was properly gone and _definitely_ not okay.

Even if he’d wanted to, Oliver couldn’t have heard similar searching calls for him as his cousin’s were sent out to try and retrieve him. He couldn’t have known the intensity of the argument that had transpired after he’d dashed out the door to find Marcus. Nor could he have even imagined the heartbreak that wracked his poor mother, sat in the kitchen after _thoroughly_ letting Callum have it, pleading with any higher power willing to listen that it wouldn’t be _another_ few years of strained contact. Another few years with one, maybe two visits at best, but still never hearing more than a handful of details about what had gone on in her son's life. Another few years of having to wonder whether Oliver was simply trying to run away altogether. He couldn’t have known any of it, and in fact he didn’t, as he disappeared in a whirl with any sound of his exit carried away with the shrieking winds.

* * *

Oliver stumbled forward as he landed in their darkened, cramped flat. Between the two of them, they’d just barely managed to scrape together enough for an almost depressingly small, dingy studio somewhere along Knockturn alley. Oliver had, naturally, protested the morning that Marcus had suggested it and insisted that there must be _something_ else around. Marcus, by far the better of the two at math and leading force behind any of their bills being paid on time, had sighed and waved a hand at him obligingly upon seeing the determined look in Oliver’s eyes. It was the same look he had when talking about quidditch, or staring at cakes in shop windows (particularly when they really _shouldn’t_ be spending money on them).

To the surprise of only Oliver himself, he had wildly miscalculated the astronomical housing prices of the streets just beyond. He had also very rapidly found an appreciation for the, comparably, minimal downsides to the flat that Marcus had managed to hunt down after a partial afternoon of Looking For Alternatives. By the end of the week, he’d finally swallowed his pride and thanked Marcus for finding their small, only mildly terrible home, accompanied by a lovely chocolate and cherry cake as an apology that was only a little singed on the bottom (turns out, their oven quite literally had a mind of its own and had promptly gotten into a disagreement with Oliver).

Surprisingly, however, even with all the oddities of their home, neither could manage to be too terribly upset over it. Occasional mystery goo that did its very best to stick either of them to the floor near the bath notwithstanding. The same went for the tap that sometimes shot out nothing but swamp water, clumps of swampweed included only on the most special of occasions. Or hey, even the bats that would inexplicably appear within their flat at any point when the mood was pointed in any even vague direction of intimacy. They’d worked incredibly hard to claw their way into having a proper space of their own, with as many jobs, odd, temporary or otherwise as they could find and countless, sleepless nights, even if it was really more just a sizable room than anything. It was small, it was mildly terrible, and it was theirs. 

Catching himself by grabbing the back of a chair, Oliver couldn’t help the shiver that ran through his entire body as he properly registered the cold and damp of his clothing for the first time since he’d left. There was no _time_ to be cold. “Marcus?” he called into the quiet, empty flat as he flicked on the light, which sputtered a couple of times above him, but didn’t turn on. There was no answer as Oliver sighed in frustration, jaw clenched as he flipped the switch for the lights back off and counted down from ten. 

“Marcus, love, are ye here?” Flipping on the lights again, the bulbs sputtered once more before begrudgingly kicking to life for just long enough for Oliver to smile. The distinct sound of the filament snapping within the bulbs as they went out was less than stellar, however and even less appreciated. “Oi, _**fuck**_ ye, then, ye bloody bastards!” he snapped, scowling in the direction of the lights.

Shivering as he dug his wand out of his pocket, he stopped cursing under his breath long enough to grind out a quick, “_Lumos_.” wincing at the bright glow in the darkness. He grumbled all the way over to their dresser and interrupted himself with, “Fuckin’ _**tits**_, why the _hell_ is it so cold in here?!” as he managed to wrangle his way out of his sweater, gasping as he began shaking all over. He continued swearing under his breath until he had managed to crawl into dry clothes, whose coziness was aided by a quick warming spell. Wherever he was, he hoped Marcus was at least warm.

Glancing over at their window, the storm appeared to be getting worse and he grimaced. Turning to his abandoned clothes; sweater, trousers, pants, socks and the only pair of shoes he owned at present, he muttered a quick drying charm and worried his lower lip between his teeth. There were really only a handful of places he could think that Marcus might have gone, since they’d agreed to keep things at least down to set places to pop off to whenever things got to be too much. 

But this was different.

This was more than just having a quidditch tryout that went tits up, or getting into a spat with someone that hired them to do an odd job because they thought that they could get away with paying less than was agreed upon. It was different than shoving off because one or both of them were fed up with the bats because _really?_ _**EVERY**_ _time?!_ It was different because Marcus almost _never_ talked about his family. It was different because Marcus had been shouldering that particular lead balloon all on his own. It was different because that meant that Oliver was _all_ he had.

Pushing the sleeve of his sweater back, he squinted at his watch in the darkness and frowned hard. It was already getting fairly late, meaning it would likely be well early when he did finally manage to find him. Judging by the state he’d been entering into by the time he’d left, he’d undoubtedly be in no shape to be level headed enough to kip back to the flat to get settled in, or just to get the important things for wherever they landed for the night. Oliver sighed and grabbed his wand, still alight, and began rummaging about the flat for a spare bag of any sort.

Luck smiled upon him as he found a spare pack tucked under the bed - bat free, even - and grabbed a change of clothing from Marcus’s end of their dresser and headed into the bathroom to grab the essentials, such as Marcus’s medication and their toiletries. However, being that their lights were presently knackered Oliver wound up treading right into the mystery goo that had apparently spent the evening creeping across the bathroom floor in an effort to nab them. “Oh-- no. No, no, no! I don’t have _time_ fer this ye wee git!” he snapped, exasperated as he tried to pull his foot loose.

After a valiant five minutes of struggle - in which he really only made it worse - he begrudgingly accepted the loss of his sock and grumbled the remainder of the way to the medicine cabinet. Shortly after moving in, they’d discovered that the goo made a sort of… Dissolving noise once it had captured something, which they’d chocked up to it being the goo’s way of eating its prey. He wistfully thought of all the times he’d taken having two socks for granted. 

Thinking better of possibly chancing the other one, he opted to apparate out of the bathroom instead, setting the pack on the bed. He turned to the nightstand on Marcus’s side and slid the top drawer open, very carefully lifting out a small jar with a meagre handful of change in it; a few galleons, five sickles and three knuts were the depressing culmination of their Emergency Fund. At least, their emergency cash fund, at any rate. They only _just_ had handful more at the end of each month, when they were lucky.

For a long time, he stared at the jar in his hands, debating. Could they _really_ chance it…? What if something happened later within the month, or Merlin forbid, the _week?_ What if they came up short for one of their bills? It was thankfully not a common occurrence, but given the news, Marcus certainly wouldn’t be in any state to try and talk shop with any sort of creditor - particularly not the types that they typically owed money to - and the last time Oliver had done it, they’d spent a month with a banshee shrieking at them morning, noon and night in their bath and bleeding all over the few clothes they’d had. He’d have to work on that.

With a heavy sigh, he counted out the change and hunted down a spare bit of paper and quill and scratched out the amount that had been in there, replacing the now empty jar in the drawer. “Jus’ have t’hope one of us doesn’t get ill.” he frowned, jamming the change into his pocket. With one final once over, he pulled on his shoes, one foot desperately missing its now half dissolved sock, grabbed the pack and the only other jacket they had between the two of them and disappeared from the flat with a whirl.

* * *

Marcus found himself stood just outside the front door of the shrieking shack, staring up at the tall, creaking structure as it slowly swayed from one side to the other in the harsh winds. He’d been there only once before when things had gotten bad. Monumentally, earth shatteringly tits up, to be exact. At least for him, at any rate. His father had been bent on following tradition, as any pureblood line was generally want to do, and had set his sights on finding a spouse for his only child. He was perfectly happy to pretend that Marcus was his pride and joy as long as the arrangement had enough cumulative value to ensure the line stayed on the Right Path, and had almost even seemed human at times.

However, there were a handful of problems with Ivor's oh so careful planning, the foremost being that Marcus hadn't even the slightest interest in _anyone_ that Ivor had managed to turn up (not that _that_ had made any difference in the slightest), and it had not only showed, but was always inevitably mutual. Blatantly and unrelentingly so, even. Marcus had begrudgingly agreed to play the part, put on the finery and had even had the decency to show up on time for the first handful. They'd all 'wanted a spark', but felt none. Marcus, who had wholly agreed on feeling absolutely nothing about the whole endeavor, wanted Oliver. The simple fact was that there simply wasn't anyone _like_ him. Not even close. Things just felt so different with him. There were no flaming hoops to jump though, no mile long check list of tasks that needed tending before he could be reviewed to determine whether or not he was worthy of even a distracted ounce of his time. He didn't have to grind himself away into nothing in hopes that he might, _maybe_, be good enough for just a moment. 

Affection was just... Given. Freely, warmly, usually without even having to agonize over whether Oliver would feel put upon by him asking. They just understood one another. Could read one another like a book and nearly always knew exactly which page to turn to when it was needed. Nobody Ivor had vetted could even begin to hope to hold a candle to Oliver. So, it followed that all efforts had been veritable abominations, one of which had even resulted in Ivor having had to shell out a considerable sum as compensation for damaged garments, though Marcus hadn't raised a finger. He knew the consequences _far_ too well.

After having suffered through fifteen failed arrangements, Ivor had lost patience and decided that he could suffer no further disgrace to the Flint family name. He tossed Marcus out on his arse and into the snow, everything that he'd ever been permitted to own had been tossed following shortly after and Marcus just narrowly managed to catch his broom. Once he'd gotten up and dusted himself off, he'd picked up the single, suitcase, climbed onto his broom and set off with all his worldly possessions.

Given the circumstances, the shrieking shack had seemed a plausible idea for a space to hold up in until either exposure or insanity took him. But Oliver… He simply wouldn't have it. He had gone out looking for Marcus when he hadn't shown up that afternoon, and had apparently scoured the whole of Hogsmeade as well as the surrounding areas on his broom, and had truly been a sight when he'd landed. Immediately, he felt bad for worrying him, but he'd not managed to get a word in edgewise before Oliver had laid into him, all red cheeks, puffy eyes and trembling hands. He'd distantly thought to himself that Oliver's accent showed quite spectacularly when he was angry, though he'd been a bit too far under the mental water to really make out what it was that he had been yelling.

He had never managed to ask, as Oliver had at some point caught on that Marcus either couldn't or wouldn't listen and had turned to storm off in the direction of Hogsmeade. Marcus had only just barely managed to stumble forward quickly enough to catch him, but not nearly attentive enough to keep the both of them from toppling into the snow. After a fair bit more yelling and angry tears, he had managed to shake out of his stupor enough to explain that, while he was very sorry for having frightened Oliver and he did very, very much love him, he had only just recently been made homeless.

Oliver, furious as he had been, had simply clenched his jaw, hauled him into Hogsmeade and had a solution within the hour.

Marcus had been convinced he'd accidentally knocked back a cauldrons worth of felix felicis, as the solution Oliver had seemingly pulled out of thin air had extended to the both of them having a place to stay. Though he wouldn't admit it - and Oliver would certainly never tell - he'd spent the night with his face pressed firmly against his chest sobbing, whilst Oliver held him and quietly murmured old stories to him. 

Frowning up at the old, rickety building, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath and very quietly counted backwards from ten as he breathed out slowly. Things were _not_ that dire. _They had a home, they had enough to eat and they were happy together._ He repeated the thought to himself over and over as he took another deep breath and counted backwards, trying to will his nerves to calm before he turned on his heel and left, trudging the distance back up to the village.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope y'all enjoyed it and I'd love to hear what you thought, and I'll see y'all in the next one!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight on 'Into the Winds', Oliver is kinda losing steam with the whole search and rescue mission and Marcus is just trying to survive with high anxiety, cont.

Oliver found that he really, _really_ missed his eaten sock the second he was deposited into knee high snow a few feet away from the Black Lake outside of Hogwarts. The cold immediately made the leather of his only shoes - a pair of tall, worn boots - frigid, causing the bare skin beneath to ache as the ice did its best to slough into his shoes and sink needle teeth into bare flesh. He grit his teeth to will away his own grimace and, with a little effort managed to make some progress wading over to the edge of the lake. The snow was marginally less tall there - ranging at about mid calf - and since it was the dead of winter, he wagered that the edges of the lake should be frozen enough to walk along. At least, he hoped.

The painful chill that shot up his leg from the unsocked foot suggested that it was at least worth a shot as he waded over. Lifting his arms slightly to balance himself, he frowned at the ground and quietly willed it to hold under his weight, despite the fact that he really didn’t intend to stray out past the edge, much less into the middle of the lake. When there was no immediate cracking sound under foot, he grinned to himself and chuckled quietly. “Well, tha’s at least _one_ thing right.”

Finally, he looked up, the wind was much less harsh here and it was easier to see through the snow, which was peacefully drifting to the ground here, rather than trying to assault him. He reached into the depths of the coat and pulled out his wand, waving his hand as he whispered, “_Lumos maxima_.” Immediately, a bright glow pushed back the darkness of the clearing around him and he grimaced as he raised the light to hold it above his head. “_Every bloody time..._” he grumbled. He could practically _hear_ Marcus’s chuffed chortling, the git.

Once his eyes had adjusted, his gaze scanned the area, but there didn’t appear to be any immediate footprints aside from his own. He glanced around at the long, long… _Long_ perimeter of the lake and frowned, chewing at his lower lip for a moment. There were a couple different spots that they’d regularly scooted off to when they’d been in school, and only a handful of times since, so there was a smattering of likely spots. Given the ever growing height of the snow however, it didn’t seem too far a stretch to simply just assume that Marcus wasn’t out here. 

For a moment, he considered it. There were other places he could have holed himself up, certainly. Places with warm rooms and hot beverages that, really, they couldn’t afford (though he certainly wouldn't begrudge him a nice drink). Places with warm fires to curl up in front of. Wistfully, he thought of their bed. It was the _one_ nice thing they’d permitted themselves to have. They’d saved up for _months_ for something extra comfortable and it had been worth all the frustrating extra jobs and begrudging patience. What he wouldn’t give to just be laid there with Marcus, the both of them safe and warm. Something he was sure would no doubt be as much a comfort to Marcus in that moment as it would himself.

The pang he felt in his chest confirmed what he already knew; he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if something horrible happened because he wasn’t thorough with checking everywhere. Sighing, he began trudging around the lake, doing his best to stay close to the edge as he called out Macus’s name.

* * *

The edges of his vision felt fuzzy, ringed in black as he came to a stop in front of the door to the inn. Not bothering to glance around for anyone who might be watching, he leaned forward to rest a hand against the outer wall of the inn and tried again to take deep, even breaths to push back against the mounting anxiety. _They were fine. Things were_ _ **not** _ _dire. They had their home, they mostly had enough and they had each other. They were fine._

Marcus lingered in the cold air for a long moment before the door swung open, a familiar figure appearing in the doorway, looking nonchalant. It was almost relaxing, in the tide of turmoil that was oh so insistent on washing over him in an effort to drown. “Are ye comin’ in, then, lad?” asked the innkeeper, a tall man with long greying hair streaked with white, and a lengthy beard to match. Marcus exhaled sharply through his nose and remained quiet for a moment longer before nodding mutely. He took a moment more before finally turning to Aberforth, the sight of his well worn tweed vest and earth-toned tartan kilt a comforting sight for sore eyes over the internal static. 

“Well come on, in with ye.” Aberforth instructed, stepping out of the doorway to clap a hand on his back as he lead him in. If Marcus visibly relaxed upon entering the inn, Aberforth made no move to mention it, instead ducking around the long bar counter to frown at the wall of keys behind it. “I suspect yer lad’ll be along shortly.” he said, not looking over his shoulder to Marcus, who merely hummed in return. It wasn’t a question; both of them knew it was simply an inevitability. 

For a moment, there was a brief lapse in Marcus’s current anxiety as he realized that Oliver had _no_ idea where he was. Oliver didn’t know where he had gone. He had just gotten up and headed out and Oliver had no idea whether something bad had happened to him-- Didn’t know that _nothing_ bad had happened to him, not since he’d left. 

_Oliver had no idea where he was._

** _Merlin’s bloody beard._ **

Marcus was unaware at which point he’d begun hyperventilating, but he knew he must have once he’d registered the cadence of Aberforth’s calm, monotone voice. He’d guided Marcus into a chair and sat across from him, talking him through the familiar breathing exercises to help wind him back down. He wanted to listen, really he did. But it was hard to even look at him, let alone tune in long enough to focus. It felt as if he’d been dipped under water for the hundredth time that night and he would give anything for it to just stop.

Eventually, his chest ceased its ragged heaving and he was able to resurface, at least in part. He could hear Aberforth again, and while he couldn’t exactly return the communication, he knew it wouldn’t be held against him. Aberforth knew the drill well as Oliver did by now. Mindful of the dizzying headrush that the stress usually brought, Aberforth insisted on leading the way up the stairs and to the room Marcus and Oliver always wound up taking up; their old haunt.

The familiar space was comforting as he sat on the bed, fists clenching and unclenching as the other set to lighting the gas lanterns, casting the room in a warm glow. He’d been more than tempted to head back out into the storm, to try and find wherever Oliver might’ve wound up in his efforts to find him, but Aberforth had made a frustratingly good point; Oliver _would_ find him. “Like a bloodhound after wounded game, that one.” he’d said, patting Marcus’s shoulder consolingly. Marcus had grimaced a bit, not quite sure which of the pair should probably be offended in that scenario.

He’d managed a somewhat hoarse, “Thank you,” before Aberforth was appeased enough to let him be, and headed back down to the bar to await Oliver’s inevitable arrival. As the door shut behind him, Marcus laid back on the bed and frowned at the ceiling for a long moment. Oliver would be… _Upset._ He’d probably be hurt that he’d not told him earlier. Or maybe angry? Though, that didn’t seem terribly likely; he really wasn’t one to kick up a fuss when it came to family matters, Marcus’s in particular. He understood that it was a complicated, painful topic. 

He would certainly be hurt that he’d simply left, however. Brows furrowed as he sighed and let his eyes slide shut, bringing his hands up to rest on his stomach. He hadn’t wanted to hurt his feelings, or ruin the chance for him to have a moment to sit down with his family. He’d been stressed over it enough as it was… He rolled over onto his side and curled his limbs around himself as he tried to curtail his internal catastrophizing. Just because Oliver would be upset didn’t mean that he would _hate_ him. Just because Oliver would be frustrated with his sudden absence didn’t mean that it would evolve into them splitting up. Just because things had gotten out of hand didn’t mean that there would be swift, severe punishment.

* * *

Despite his best efforts, the coat that Oliver had brought with him simply wasn’t as thick as the coat he’d left behind at his childhood home by mistake. Sure, it got the job done in a pinch, but was meant for lighter weather. He’d made it about halfway around the lake before the snow set to thoroughly soaking into his pants and he was miserably trying his best to press on and ignore the shivers that ran through his body. He was _almost_ all the way around the lake. He could almost go elsewhere to try and find Marcus. He just had to finish this last leg of this lap.

The final stretch pushed Oliver up the banks of the lake and into the quiet of the trees. Blissfully, not too far in, there was a ladder which lead up to a platform that they’d hastily built at the beginning of their last year. It had been oddly thrilling, having to find ways to gather supplies and sneak out every free chance they’d gotten. Having a place to peel off to when they were stressed or upset. Having a space entirely their own before they even had the wherewithal to think of what might become of them at the end of the school year.

Memories of the pair of them sneaking out past curfew to gaze up at the stars through the gaps in the trees, or to spend free periods together flooded back. Even the occasional skipped class, though Oliver would certainly never admit to it. He had been nothing if not a model student, surely. The first time they’d kissed had been up on the platform, just before they were set to go their separate ways for the holidays. Marcus had gotten progressively quieter, more distant as the days counted down, drawing stressfully nearer to having to be apart.

Oliver could only guess it had felt like a prison sentence at the time, given what very little he knew of Marcus’s home life. He’d been worried that it had meant Marcus didn’t quite fancy him the way he had in the warmer months when they’d sprawled out, various boxes of bertie botts, acid pops and ice mice mostly forgotten somewhere beside them and their fingers laced together. He’d been particularly frustrated by the distance that Marcus had seemed to be treading internally and, much to his chagrin, had elected to scoot off to head inside when trying to voice his frustrations seemed to go unnoticed. 

He certainly didn’t miss the way his stomach had churned when he had started down the ladder, nor the glower he’d shot at Marcus when he’d finally resurfaced to realize that something was amiss. Having a bit of a spat whilst on a ladder was certainly memorable though not necessarily fondly, if only for the handful of times he’d had to quickly grip back on to the ladder after waving his hands about wildly as he informed Marcus in no uncertain terms that if he wasn’t interested anymore that was _fine_, but it would be nice to have a heads up, at least. 

Marcus had only just managed to catch his arm before he’d tilted too far back after a particularly petulant part of his ranting, and kissed Oliver before his heart could drop into his stomach as he registered the fifth near grievous injury experience of the night in as many minutes.

He smiled fondly at the ladder as he came to it, trying to forget the chattering of his teeth as he gently gripped his wand with them to keep his guiding light as he began to climb. Once at the top, he swapped the light briefly for a different charm to push the snow off of the platform itself and onto the ground. Unsurprisingly, Marcus wasn’t there either, but he couldn’t help the need for a brief rest. Hauling himself up once the snow was cleared he cast drying and heating charms respectively and winced in pain as his skin from the calves down prickled painfully.

It started out like pins and needles, but gradually grew until it felt like a small blaze was trapped just under the surface and he gripped at the knees of his rapidly drying corduroys until his knuckles turned white, eyes screwed shut tightly. He hadn’t realized he’d dissolved into tears until a gasp tore a sob from his chest, hands shaking as he released the fabric. Hot tears stung his cheeks, which were red from the cold and he wanted desperately to stop because this was _ridiculous_, he could just apparate somewhere else to curl up by the fire for a while, but he couldn’t seem to quiet himself. 

Instead, he pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapped the large coat around himself as best he could and tried to absorb as much warmth from the heating charm as he could manage. He buried his face against his knee caps as pained sobs escalated to anguished wails briefly as the stress of the evening set in, before eventually dying down into exhausted hiccuping. If nothing else, it had given him time to warm enough to be able to make himself continue onwards. As much as he desperately wanted to go home, he knew it would be worse without Marcus there.

With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself into a standing position and rubbed shaking hands over his cheeks to brush away the lingering tears. There were only a _couple_ places left. He was bound to turn up sooner than later. He had to. With another heavy, wary sigh, he disappeared into the night in a whirl, leaving nothing but a bare patch of wood from where he’d sat.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight on 'In the winds', I remember what the actual name of this fic is and the whole Wood Family™ isn't doing so hot right now, to the shock of no one. It is a bit of a shorter one, but not to worry, I'll be working on the next one!

It was with an upsettingly familiar and distinctly nauseating churn of the stomach that Oliver landed in yet more snow, which only served to pull him down to the ground and onto his knees. One arm shot out to steady him as his other hand came up to clutch at his stomach, the cold doing nothing to soothe the internal upset. He always wound up feeling ill after a few turn arounds of apparition in somewhat rapid succession. Fortunately for him, Marcus didn’t take to disappearing too terribly often. For a long time, Oliver shut his eyes tightly and took slow, even breaths to quell the sick that threatened to rise.

After the pause, Oliver managed to force himself to stand, his features settling into a wary glower as he stared up at the shrieking shack. It seemed to be a place that always wound up being worth some small amount of consideration, but wasn’t anything that either of them had ever willingly set foot in. Things had simply never that bad. 

Had they faced innumerable hardships? Sure. Had they spent a fair portion of time just barely scraping by enough to not be homeless? Of course. Had they had to field mild to severe threats from the patriarch of the Flint family - Marcus being the one threatened and Oliver being the one to tend the fall out - as a somewhat normal occurrence? Naturally. But at the end of the day, they’d always been able to find some way to have what they needed between the two of them and find what few comforts may lie within that.

Past hardships aside, those things all felt practically miniscule in comparison to being entirely disowned, at least in that moment. It wasn’t any well kept secret, Marcus’s disdain for his father, or largely the Flint family as a whole. The list of people that Marcus enjoyed in some capacity was only marginally longer than the people that he was actually, genuinely fond of. The list of people that he loved however, was incredibly short and hard to make the cut for, but well worth it. 

Secure in that knowledge, Oliver had no doubt that Lyra Macmillan, Marcus’ mother - who’s staunch refusal to be referred to by Flint had raised more than a handful of arguments - had had less than no say in the matter. In fact, he was certain the entire ordeal would’ve broken her heart and for a long time he worried whether or not she was in a similar state as Marcus, unbeknownst to them and more importantly, if she were safe. The fact that Ivor _had_ been able to disown their son was an unsettling suggestion of what her current state might be.

Oliver’s glower eased into an upset frown as his brows knit together. Marcus must be worried sick about her… He could only imagine how horrible it must be, having not only been kicked out some years prior, but now having salt in the wound by having to deal with the absolute certainty of never being able to return home, even for the parent that actually cared for him. How she must be feeling over the whole thing, if she even knew what Ivorhad done, was simply unfathomable. He’d never had the fortune to actually meet her, but had received well wishes on occasion when Marcus had written to her whilst feeling especially flustered. The particular shade of crimson that inevitably overcame Marcus each time when sharing was always a treat, and made up at least in part for not being able to hear them from her.

That they would need to find a way to help her escape the manor didn’t come as a terrible surprise to him, and his resolve was settled without spending enough time mulling it over to bat a lash. Ivor was inarguably a terrible father and, one could only assume, a worse husband. It simply wasn’t in Oliver’s nature to leave someone in that sort of predicament, and they’d simply have to find a way to make things work. They’d be fine. They always found a way to manage. Besides, he was certain it would do both Lyra and Marcus a world of good being able to spend time together without having to fear being reprimanded.

His limbs protested something fierce as he pushed himself forward, his stomach feeling as if something were sloshing around in protest. He’d be walking to Hogsmeade, then. He came to a stop at the front door of the shrieking shack and, managing to catch it just mid sway before it tilted too far left, he was able to wedge the door open enough to shove his way in. The tip of his wand illuminated the space as he strolled far enough into the shack to see no immediate signs someone else had been there recently; no wet footprints of immediately obvious interruptions in the dust that covered everything around him. 

In all honesty, the creaking, musty structure didn’t seem like some place that Marcus, anxious as he must have been, would have been able to stomach enough to find space to try and calm down. Unlikely as it may have been however, Oliver was still hesitant to rule it out entirely. Seeing no immediate signs of disturbance, he turned to squeeze back out the way he’d come. He managed to get the door closed after a couple tries and resolved to do a more thorough search of the shack if Marcus was _truly_ nowhere to be found in Hogsmeade and adamantly refused to entertain the thought of where else he might need to look if he couldn’t find him in either space. He was safe and in one piece, until proven otherwise.

* * *

The uproar that had resulted after Oliver had peeled out to follow after Marcus had eventually died down, leaving an uncomfortable silence to settle over the family. Callum had been sat down in a corner and was in the process of being adamantly lectured by a handful of aunts. Uncles had split themselves between either minding the confused younger family members and fielding questions as best they could, and aiding older cousins with searching around the home for where Oliver might’ve gone.

A couple of cousins in an awkward middle stage - too old to need to be walked through any inquiries, but not quite old enough to be released into the storm - had taken to trying to draft a letter to Oliver to explain the goings on that had followed his departure. In the form of a howler. Well, a partial one, at least, with partial being the operative word. They’d never quite gotten the chance to finish before one of their shared older cousins caught them hovering near the stairs, having just come back in from the storm. They’d been chastised swiftly with an, “Oi, if yer mother’s knew what ye’d been up tae, they’d have yer hides quicker than th’lot o’yes could say _quidditch_. Poor auntie Seonaid has been havin’ a hard enough go o’ this as it is, she doesn’t need a handful of weans muckin’ about an’ makin’ more o' a bloody mess o’ things!”

The small group had bristled at being referred to as weans - they were _well_ into their teens, by their own standards - but a sharp glare from their older cousin Fion, whose dark, furrowed brow and deeply angry hazel eyes were not to be tested. It was more than enough to give them pause to hold their tongues for the moment, and she ignored their muttered protest and slipped out of her outdoor gear as they shuffled off to the kitchen. She’d given them strict instruction to go and set to getting started with clearing things up and storing the more than ample remains of dinner for later. She knew from experience that idle hands - theirs in particular - could not be trusted.

With the confiscated, half finished howler in tow, she went to go and check on their aunt Seonaid, who had disappeared after having thoroughly let uncle Callum have it. They had all silently agreed to give her some space to cool off, but nobody had seen her for quite some time and they weren’t getting anywhere with trying to find Oliver. Though that was hardly unusual these days; a poignantly noted absence by all.

For a long moment, she hesitated at the foot of the stairs, looking up toward the darkened landing. Auntie Seonaid had been so looking forward to having Oliver around again, she hadn’t even given it a second thought when he’d said he’d wanted to bring someone along. She’d just been over the moon to hear from him, to know he was safe and doing okay. The rest of the family had been cheered as well, though were a bit more hesitant about it. They had no illusions about the absence that would surely follow the visit, as it always seemed to do. She could only imagine how auntie Seonaid was feeling, having had things cut so incredibly short.

With a heavy heart and an even heavier sigh, she climbed the stairs and up to the dark landing to check on their aunt, ignoring the hush that followed behind her as her family’s eyes watched her ascend. The quiet thankfully only lasted until she’d reached the landing, but the resumed chatter did nothing to quell the immediate lurch of heartbreak that welled up in her chest as she crossed over to a firmly closed bedroom door. Even from the landing, she could hear the muffled sobbing and with each step she took closer to the door, the more unmistakable the sound became. Suddenly, the idea of sending their Oliver a howler didn’t seem so out of line.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight on In The Winds: Oliver would make an interesting surprise contestant for a vaguely winter themed sfx show, and I swear, I will get to the meat and potatoes of The Feelings™ in the next one.

Despite his best efforts, Oliver hadn’t managed to stave off having to duck into the woods as illness overtook him as he’d made his way to Hogsmeade. He cursed under his breath in exhausted frustration after his stomach elected to stop trying to force its way up and out of him and grimaced at the bitter taste it left on his tongue. He was almost there, he could just duck in somewhere and clean up a bit, then continue on. Though he’d never admit it, it wasn’t an entirely uncommon occurrence whenever Marcus wound up popping off somewhere. It was by no means favorable, but as long as he found Marcus in the end, he was ready to simply grit his teeth and bear it.

Stumbling out of the treeline, he almost scowled at the warm, inviting glow of the village. It was normally a sight for sore eyes, but Oliver couldn’t manage to stifle the worry he felt, nor the after effects of illness enough to feel cheered by the familiar, comforting atmosphere. If he found-- _when_ he found Marcus, they wouldn’t be able to just… Go home and go back to things as usual.

For the first time as he drew ever nearer to Hogsmeade, Oliver felt the weight of the distance between himself and Marcus. Not once since he’d made the mad dash out into the snow had he stopped to really let it settle in, but as his stumbling evened out into a leisurely pace, the gravity of the secret Marcus had been tending finally began to rest its heavy talons upon his shoulders. 

Marcus had been disowned for…. Who knew how long, and hadn’t said anything. It was certainly a lot of information to contend with and taking space to process outright abandonment was certainly to be expected. But… Nothing at all? If he’d known, he’d have done more to steer the conversation away from it, or nip what would have been the endless questions in the bud, or made up some reason to visit his family home the following year instead. He wouldn’t have put him through any of it if he’d known.

So why hadn’t he told him?

He felt his heart sink down into the pit of his stomach as he trod into the village, gaze downcast as he pulled the coat tighter around himself. He could only imagine how agonizing it must have been, having to listen to him go on and on about seeing his own family. Having to witness the antics of him doing what he could to try and prepare for interacting with people that actually _wanted_ to see him. It all felt so selfish, in retrospect. Why hadn’t he just _told_ him? It wasn’t like Marcus to keep things from him; not since they’d first settled in together. 

He bit down on his tongue hard to will away any question of whether or not there were other things he might have been hiding as well. Marcus was his own person, not everything about him need be laid bare before him to be inspected. That simply wasn’t how they _were_ with one another, and it was hardly what he wanted, anyway. Besides, it wasn’t as if he wouldn’t have good reason not to bring it up, particularly if it had been something recent. He’d been formally _disowned_ for feckssake! How does one even begin to unpack that for themselves, much less try to navigate what that meant? It’s hardly something that would be fitting for a casual over breakfast announcement, especially with the way they went about their breakfast.

Most days, they were lucky to even get a word in, one too busy ignoring the burning pain of choking down freshly made hot coffee whilst the other crammed as much of a mostly cooked sausage into their mouth as they could manage, with a hasty couple of oatcakes following shortly after. Mornings in their flat were far from glamorous, but could never be called uneventful. 

Oliver was sure one of them would forget their head if the other weren’t there to make sure it was screwed on tight. He’d even grown accustomed to ducking the bats that would try and swoop down at them enough to be able to steal a handful of kisses each morning before having to quite literally run out the door to whatever odd job he’d managed to snag. He never meant to be late, really, but with the hours they tended to keep… If he was awake, he was definitely, **definitely** late.

* * *

Trudging through Hogsmeade was a swell of warm nostalgia as much as it was just wholly bitter sweet. While they had certainly grown to love their small, only mildly terrible flat, neither had any illusions about how much they both missed being in Hogsmeade, even if they did have marginally more space now. The village just had charm and comfort running out of its ears, and the pair had managed to settle in quite well for all the odds and ends that they’d seen to; chopping wood, mending fences, wrangling livestock, having a rather cross few words with the large goose, Maurice, who insisted on wandering into the taverns as often as was possible. Being in Knockturn alley… Just made the feeling of missing home, of missing a sense of community all the more notable.

As he passed, a few warm, familiar figures waved and called well wishes from the depths of heavy, warm winter coats and scarves, and he did his best not to look as terrible as he felt. He wasn’t convinced his efforts were fooling anyone, for the worried brows that they were met with, but the acquaintances and well wishers left him to it. It was hardly any big secret as to where he was headed, after all.

The sight of the Hog’s Head was a more than welcome one, though a heavy sigh still shook his shoulders as the bell above the door jingled, drawing Aberforth’s attention and causing thick, grey eyebrows to rise. An appraising look settled on worn features and the older man hummed thoughtfully for a moment, frowning. “Alright there, lad? Was wonderin’ when ye might turn up.” he drawled from his perch, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the bar top. “Ye look… A bit _peaky._” Oliver had no doubt that that was putting it kindly.

“’S been a long night,” Oliver offered after a long moment spent kicking as much snow off of his boots as he could manage. His legs still felt frozen firm and, despite his best efforts, little flecks of snow still followed him in. He offered an apologetic look, which was waved away easily. 

“Ye wouldn’t happen t’ve--”

“Seen yer young man?” Aberforth finished, fondness seeping into the worry of his tone. Oliver nodded weakly, his own expression rapidly approaching pleading as if he might crumble in on himself if he were met with yet another absence. 

“Aye, I have, an’ he was a right mess, too. Sent ‘im on up to rest n’ tol' 'im to hold still long enough an' ye'd show up. Figured it wouldn’t be long, anyway; ye always manage.” 

Oliver wasn’t wholly sure of the sudden swell of emotion that engulfed him following what Aberforth had said, but he supposed he must have landed somewhere along the lines of relieved, since Aberforth didn’t fret or press for any details. The pair of them, disheveled and distressed as they were, must have at the very least appeared to be faring decently well this go around, considering the truly extensive depth and range of states Aberforth had seen the pair of them in. He couldn’t decide if that was reassuring that they weren’t doing entirely poorly or just more upsetting, given the circumstances. 

Oliver had only barely managed to shrug his coat off before being ushered to the bathroom on the ground floor with some spare, dry clothes from a hall cupboard. He was admittedly surprised that there were still things tucked away for the two of them within the inn; it had been the better part of a year since they had last visited, but he wasted no time in taking comfort in it. It _had_ been their first home together, after all. 

He couldn’t help the grimace that crossed his face the moment he had time to properly get a look at the state of himself in the mirror, frowning back at his reflection. “Oh, brilliant. I look worse than th’bloody banshee. I’m sure tha’ll be _very_ reassuring.” he grumbled, taking in his red rimmed eyes just above heavy dark circles. Not a new development in the slightest, but they did nothing _good_ for the over all look. 

Running a hand through frigid, damp hair, he sighed frustratedly as his gaze continue to roam, landing on flushed cheeks and dry, mildly bloodied cracked lips, whose reddened state stood out spectacularly against his pallid, clammy complexion. Dimly, he thought back to wailing on the platform in the darkness and wrinkled his nose. It hadn’t really been something he’d noticed at the time, but he wasn’t entirely surprised. With having been ill in the depths of the woods - at least as much as he’d been able to manage - as the cherry on top of everything and effectively surrendering what little human coloring he might have had left, he was most certainly a sight to behold. “Look like th’bloody ghost o’ Christmas past, ‘ere t’wreak havoc.” 

He grumbled to himself all throughout digging around in the pack for toiletries, revelling in the immediate improvement of being able to brush his teeth, wash his face and put on comfortably dry clothes. He even had two socks again, which served as an added, much needed comfort. Once he was feeling almost human again, he gathered up his belongings and strolled back out into the bar. Aberforth was nowhere to be seen - probably gone to bed like a normal person, now he’d shown up - but a single hand-held lantern awaited him on the bartop beside a spare key for the room. 

Oliver muttered a quiet, ‘Thank you’, to the darkness and after checking to make sure the front door was locked out of force of habit, he grabbed the lantern and key, then turned to head up the stairs. As he climbed, a sense of unease settled over him. He couldn’t even _begin_ to hope to have any idea of what to say. Marcus’s family had _disowned_ him. What could possibly feel comforting in the face of such willful abandonment? Especially after having an interaction with someone else’s family go completely tits up. 

Regret rolled over him in waves as he turned the corner at the top of the stairs and tiptoed down the hall. He came to a stop when he found himself outside of the door, wincing as he bit at his damaged lip. What if he said the wrong thing and made it worse? _Could_ he even make it worse? What if there _were_ other th-- “_Damnit_.” he hissed under his breath, free hand coming up to press against his mouth as his eyes watered a bit from a particularly well placed bite. He didn’t know what to say - didn’t know the _right_ thing to say - but it was better than not saying anything at all, surely, and absolutely better than just leaving Marcus to deal with it on his own. He allowed himself to linger until his eyes stopped watering, willing his nerves to still as he opened the door with a deep breath, forbidding himself from simply standing and worrying more of the night away than he already had.


End file.
